


I'm Not Asking for Love

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Fluff, Foster Care, London, M/M, Starbucks, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy!Baz, University, gratuitous use of the em dash, oh my god it actually has a plot, social work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27505153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: Simon Snow is desperate; tuition and rent are due, and he's beyond skint. His solution: posting a profile on Sugar Daddies UK. Wealthy young businessman Basil Grimm-Pitch (in search of some arm-candy for work engagements) to the rescue!
Relationships: Simon Snow & Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, background penelope bunce/shepard
Comments: 103
Kudos: 185





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title of this fic is, of course, a lyric from the Fleetwood Mac classic _'Sugar Daddy'._

**Simon**

You know you’ve reached a new low when, after looking at your tuition fees for the term online, your very next Google search is _“sugar daddies London”._ Penny would be mortified. I’m mortified. But I’ve been working nearly full-time as well as trying to finish the last year of my social work degree, and I’ve expended all available student aid — I’m out of options, folks. 

I read the info page for the Sugar Daddies UK site and get an idea of what I’d be signing up for, and once I’ve done that, I feel a little less disgusted with myself. Apparently not every bloke out there is looking for a sexual relationship, which is a bit of a relief. I’m in this awkward place where I don’t know what to call myself just yet — I’m not gay, but I don’t think that bi is the right fit either, and I’m not willing to try and sort that out with some old guy I met online. 

So I do exactly what Penny would tell me not to do: I sign up. I make an account, select a photo that Shep recently referred to as “an absolute thirst trap”, and explain my expectations: I’m willing to provide non-sexual companionship in exchange for negotiable compensation. Please, for the love of Christ, do not let one of my professors be on this site. 

**Simon || 23M || West London**

I start receiving replies right away, and trying to sort through them turns out to be a fucking nightmare. I go back and forth between wanting to click on profiles and read more, and wanting to chuck my phone out the window. So I do what any normal bloke in my position would do: I call my ex-girlfriend.


	2. Chapter 2

Agatha arrives an hour later with an enormous bag of scones from the bakery we work at and flops down on my bed. Penny’s at the library with her boyfriend, so we have a few hours before she gets home and starts trying to poke her nose into my business. Aggie and I broke up years ago, but Pen is still a bit suspicious about our friendship.

“Alright, let’s see it, then,” Agatha says, reaching for my phone. “Honestly, Simon, if my parents weren’t helping me out with money for school, I’d probably be doing this, too. Now, let’s catch you a man to pay for your education, alright?”

Her first order of business is to cross off anyone over 40. “You’re looking for a sugar _daddy,_ ” she insists when I question the move, “Not a sugar _grandpa_.” She scrolls through the direct messages I’ve been sent, deleting anything gross. I appreciate that she doesn’t read them out loud unless they’re funny, because my tummy is doing backflips right now, and I don’t think I can stomach anything truly disgusting. She screenshots a few and sends them to her own phone just so she can have a laugh later tonight when she’s back at her own flat.

“Okay, I’ve got five contenders,” she says half an hour later, having filtered through all _eighty_ (eight-zero!) requests I’ve been sent. “There’s one I think will really interest you, but I’ll save that one for last, because it’s the best one.”

“Can’t we just skip right to that one, if you really think it’s the best?” I whine, really not interested in spending more time than absolutely necessary on this. There are scones to be had, and GBBO is on tonight. “Please, Aggie?”

“Nope, this is how we’re doing it,” she insists. “Best for last.”

The first two blokes she’s identified as top contenders are looking for an every week sort of arrangement, but I don’t know that I can commit to that much time on a regular basis. My uni schedule can be pretty hectic, especially during practicum, so I’m hesitant to inquire further about any of that sort. The third seems normal, until I read a bit further into his profile and find out that he’s married. I’m not interested in potentially being a home-wrecker, even if it’s financially beneficial, and the fourth mentions too many feet-related interests for my liking. Aggie admits after a few minutes that she chose that one just for a laugh.

“Okay, so here’s the last bloke — he’s sent you a pretty lengthy message, and yes, I’ll admit he sounds like a bit of an uptight twat, but hear me out! It could work.”

“24M; seeking male companion between ages 22-26 to accompany me to work functions (approximately 1-2 evenings per month), plus one half-hour phone call per week. I work in the business sector, and would benefit socially amongst my peers by having a romantic partner in attendance at said functions. Light affectionate behaviour, i.e. hand-holding, social dancing, etc. requested, but can be modified based on candidate's comfort level. Retainer payment of £100 per week, plus an additional £300 per event attended. Discretion as to the nature of the arrangement is both greatly appreciated and non-negotiable. All events would be scheduled well in advance so that you are able to arrange your own calendar accordingly. Please contact me at your earliest convenience if interested.”

“Wow. That’s…” I’m literally at a loss for words.

 _”Right?”_ Agatha enthuses, grabbing my arm and squeezing it with excitement. “Simon, this bloke’s willing to give you money for just existing, as long as you’ll go to a few posh work parties with him, and let him ring you up when he’s feeling a bit lonely.”

“I reckon there’d even be free food involved,” I posit, cocking my head to one side as I consider this proposition. “My only question is, if he’s young and minted, why can’t he just find a date on Tinder like the rest of us?” Not that I'm finding dates on Tinder; I mean _other_ young people.

“Well, he’s called _Basil,_ so there are three likely possibilities,” Agatha says, ticking them off on her fingers. “One, he’s pug ugly; two, he’s a right prick; or three, he's got the bad fortune of being both ugly and a prick.

“Well, I don’t think it’s right to judge someone by their looks,” I say hesitantly, “And if he’s a knobhead, well, I don’t _actually_ have to like him, just have to pretend I do. There’re loads of knobheads that I pretend to like at school, so how much harder could this be?”

“So that’s a yes, then?” She confirms, grabbing my phone again. “I’ll respond for you, and then I’ll leave you to arrange a time to meet him. I’ll even come with you, hide behind a potted plant or something just to make sure he’s not a murderer.”

Ha! That wouldn’t look suspicious at all.

* * * * *

Basil and I arrange for a Friday afternoon meet-up at the Ealing Commons Starbucks, mostly because it’s close to Aggie’s flat, and I feel bad making her trek across town for my sake. Honestly, I’m nervous as hell to meet him. He could be my ticket out of crippling credit card debt this term.

“What am I meant to wear to this sort of thing?” I ask Agatha over FaceTime as I rifle through my dresser drawers. “A suit seems like overkill, plus I haven’t got one, but I reckon it’d do me well to make a good impression, ‘specially if he’s going to bring me to business dinners and all that.”

“Er…have you got anything decent?” She asks sceptically. I don’t even pretend to take offence because ‘trackie bottoms' might as well be my middle name, and I’m notorious for waiting until I’m out of underwear before doing my laundry. She knows me well.

“How about this jumper Pen bought me for my birthday?” I suggest, holding it up to the camera so she can see. It’s a nice blue — matches my eyes, she said.

“I’d say yes, but is that a mustard stain down the front I see?” Agatha winces.

“I’m so fucked,” I sigh dismally. “Fine, I’ll just wear jeans and a collared shirt, if I can find a clean one.”

“Best of luck, Si. You’ve got this!”

When I walk into Starbucks an hour later, I quickly zero in on Agatha, who’s seated in the corner with her laptop and a Caramel Frappuccino. She gives me a subtle wave as I step into line to purchase myself a drink. Checking my messages again as I wait, I see a text from Basil saying that he’s got black hair, and he’ll be wearing a salmon-coloured button-down.

I glance around the seating area and catch sight of a young guy matching the description, but he’s way too fit to be the right person. Blokes like that are never without a date. Once I’ve got my drink (one of those berry refreshers Penny teases me for), I send a text to say that I’ve arrived. Pink shirt (salmon, my arse) glances down at his phone and then up towards the door. That can’t be a coincidence; he’s my guy.

“Um, Basil?” I ask, cautiously approaching his table. When his silver-grey eyes meet mine, I forget how to breathe for a moment, because holy shit is he ever gorgeous.

“Simon, right?” he asks, extending a hand in greeting. “Thanks for coming.” He’s a bit taller than me, with black hair pulled back into a loose bun and a prominent widow’s peak. His gaze rakes over me from head to toe, and I catch an appreciative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Please, have a seat.”

“Did you get a drink already, or…” I jerk my thumb towards the counter.

“Yes, I’ve been here a while already, just finishing up some last-minute work,” he answers, patting the leather laptop bag leaned against the side of his chair. As I pull my own chair back, the metal legs scrape loudly across the tile floor, causing everyone else in the place to look up from what they’re doing. Basil winces, but quickly schools his features back into a more neutral expression.

“So, um, I’ve never done this sort of thing before,” I murmur, my voice just above a whisper, “So I don’t really know how to start, or what to ask.” I don’t want to speak too loudly for fear that someone will overhear our discussion.

“I’ve never done this either,” he admits, staring at his hands clasped on the table in front of him. “I suppose I might tell you a bit about my work, and why I’m looking for a…companion.”

Basil is a junior associate at his father’s company, Grimm Holdings, a large multinational investment firm. He works in client services, which means he’s expected to keep the firm’s clients up to date on their accounts. From what I gather, it also involves a lot of schmoozing.

“You must hate that,” I say with a laugh. Basil arches one dark, perfectly-sculpted eyebrow.

"Oh? What makes you say that?” he inquires coolly.

Fuck. There I go, being all presumptuous about things I know nothing of. “Er, well, you don’t exactly seem like the sort of bloke that enjoys small talk.”

“You’re not wrong,” he chuckles, his voice deep and smooth. “Many of my clients have plenty of money, but not much for brains. I find it…challenging, at times, to make casual conversation.”

“So you need someone a bit more outgoing,” I guess, “Someone that can have a laugh over drinks, pretend to give a shit about Barbara's kids, or Michael’s afternoon at the tennis club?”

“Something like that,” Basil nods.

“And you’d prefer a man to a woman because…?”

“Because I hate pretending to be straight for other peoples’ convenience and comfort,” he says simply. “I’ve done it before, and it made me miserable.”

“S’fair,” I concede, understanding completely. It's why Agatha and I called things off; we felt like we were constantly putting on a show for each other, and for everyone else around us. “No use in pretending to be someone you’re not. And, um, on that note…”

“Yes?”

The way he leans forward when I speak, regards me with interest, is a bit unsettling. He's just met me, but he's hanging off my every word. I don't know how to feel about that. Blokes as fit as Basil don't usually pay me any mind; I'm just plain old Simon.

“Is the, um, way I talk going to be a problem?” I ask, and his brows draw together in feigned confusion. “Oh, come off it,” I snort, “I know how I sound, I’m not an idiot. No need to beat around the bush.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I know you didn’t,” I huff, rolling my eyes, “But people make assumptions, assume I'm uneducated because of how I talk. And, well, my clothes…”

“Leave something to be desired, to put it politely,” he fills in. "Not an issue. If you’ve some time next week — if you decide you’re interested in this arrangement, of course — I can have you fitted by my tailor and have a few suits done up.”

I was certain he wouldn't let me get away with some charity shop suit, but I still bristle at his suggestion.

“I can’t afford—” I start, but he waves me off. _Not an issue._

“Simon, I don’t mean to sound arrogant or pretentious," he says apologetically, "But I have more money than I know what to do with. A ridiculous amount, really. Buying decent clothes for you to wear to an event I'm asking you to attend with me is no skin off my back.”

“I don’t want your charity,” I warn. “If you’re giving me something, I want to earn it.”

“Trust me,” Basil insists wearily, “If you attend even _one_ of these wretched dinners with me, you’ll have earned it.”

“That bad, huh?”

Basil reminds me a lot of Mr. Darcy. I've never read _Pride & Prejudice,_ but Penny and Agatha made me watch both the Keira Knightley film, and the BBC miniseries from the 90s with Colin Firth, and Basil definitely fits the part. He's the strong and silent type, he's rich without having to work for it, and he'd be fit as hell in one of those white billowing regency-era shirts. I'm not saying I'd pay money to watch him step out of a pond, dripping wet, but that's only because I'm proper skint.

I snap back to attention when I see Basil draw a sheaf of neatly-stacked papers out from his laptop bag and set them on the table between us. It's all written in flowery legal language, but from what I can quickly gather, the first document is a non-disclosure agreement, and the second is a contract.

"All of the terms I mentioned in my message are included in this contract," he explains, pointing with an expensive-looking biro, "And I've marked all the areas you'd need to initial or sign with a flag. I'll go through it with you now, if that's alright, and if needed, I can set up a meeting with my barrister to answer any questions."

It's pretty much exactly what he said before: a couple events a month, the occasional phone chat, no blabbing about this to other people. He's also included a section on "supplying appropriate attire", meaning that he guessed I'd need something suitable (ha! _suit_ -able) to wear ahead of time. No dating other people while we're "together" for obvious reasons, and the contract can be dissolved easily, which was my biggest concern. If shit hits the fan, I don't want to be stuck in a contractually-obligated relationship, even if there is money to be had.

"Any concerns in terms of financial compensation?" he asks, completely calm, as if this is just everyday chit-chat for him. "It can always be re-negotiated at a later date, as per the agreement."

It's bloody ridiculous, is what it is. Who just has hundreds of pounds to toss around however they please? But I don't say that. I just shake my head and attempt a grateful smile.

"And, about the, erm... _physical_ aspect of the arrangement," he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, "Is that...is it too much?"

"I don't mind a bit of a cuddle if you don't," I smile. I'd be crazy to turn down holding hands with Basil. "Have you got homophobic clients?"

"Only when they're pissed."

"Right, well, point them out so I know when to be extra loud and flirty," I tease, waggling my eyebrows. He hides a timid smile with his palm, and I want nothing more than to pull his hand away so I can see the bright flash of his teeth. I may not be totally sure about my sexuality, but I'm positive that I can't stand homophobes, so I'm plenty willing to kiss Basil in front of his rude clients and colleagues if it'll piss them off. We'll see how things go.

Basil passes me the biro, I sign all the lines he's indicated, and then we're done. "Alright, then, he nods. "You should probably go let your friend know I conned you into signing your soul away so she can stop looking so worried."

"What?" I ask, glancing up sharply. His silver eyes are bright and filled with mirth. _How did he...?_

"Honestly, it would've been pretty ballsy of you not to have someone sit in," he laughs. "Meeting people online can be very hit or miss. There's a story behind that, but I won't bore you with it now."

Quite the contrary - I'd like to hear all of Basil's stories. I'd sit around for hours just to hear him talk in that smooth voice of his. Fucker could narrate audiobooks, but it's not as if he needs the money.

"Her name's Agatha," I tell him as he packs his papers back into his bag. "She was, er...sort of my girlfriend for a few years, but we're just friends now, and we work together. She was nervous about letting me come alone." His eyes snap up sharply at the word 'girlfriend', but he settles once he hears my explanation.

"Must be a pretty special girl if she dated you," he says, holding my gaze for just a touch too long before glancing away. "Anyway, good to meet you, Simon. I'll contact you soon about getting those suits, and with details about the first dinner."

"Good to meet you, too, Baz...zil," I slur, awkwardly correcting myself. "Sorry, that sounded much less weird in my head."

"You can call me Baz if you want," he says, shrugging off my apology. "All my friends do."

_Are we friends? Might we be, someday, instead of whatever this strange arrangement makes us? Business partners?_

"Okay. See you around, then, Baz," I grin. He slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder, waves, and heads for the door, dropping his empty drink cup in the bin on his way out.

Shit, I should have looked to see what he ordered so I could pick one up for him next time I see him. It would be the decent thing to do, seeing as he's basically going to be paying my way through school this year.

"You like him," Agatha accuses, sidling up beside me and giving my arm a friendly pinch. "Simon Snow, you _really_ like him!"

"What's not to like?" I ask defensively, rubbing my arm where she's grabbed me with her vulture talons (acrylic nails, she calls them). "Seems like a nice bloke. Very polite, and only a bit of a posh twat. Could've been much worse."

"You're going to fall for him," she insists, dragging me out of Starbucks so we can head back to her flat and debrief over cocktails and a few episodes of that _Dance Moms_ show from America she's dangerously obsessed with. "I know your heart, Simon. You're going to fall hard. Just...be careful, alright?"

"It'll be fine, Ags," I assure her, throwing an arm around her shoulder, appreciative of her company. "What's the worst that can happen?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to split the chapter because it hit 5k, so here's the first half!

My mobile starts ringing just as I decide that I need a break from the paper I’m writing. When I see Baz’s name on the screen, my heart skips a beat. More likely than not, he’s calling to talk details about his work event, but I can’t help but feel giddy about getting to talk to him. Is that normal? I’ll have to ask Agatha what she thinks.

“Hullo?” I answer as casually as possible. 

“Is this a good time?” Baz inquires politely. 

“Good as any, I suppose,” I joke, though apparently he can’t tell that’s how I meant it. 

“I can call back,” he offers. 

“No, now’s fine,” I say quickly, betrayed by my excitement. “I was just taking a break from an assignment.” 

“Oh? What sort of assignment?” Baz wonders. In my mind, he’s settled in on the sofa near the hearth in his big, fancy house, with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a book in the other. Maybe he’s wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and a cozy jumper. 

“Just a paper for my contemporary social welfare course,” I reply airily, putting my phone on speaker so I can grab a snack and put the kettle on as we chat. “Nothing too exciting.” 

“Sounds interesting enough to me.” 

“Are you keen on reading?” I ask, “Because you’re welcome to read my textbook for me, and just give me the gist of things so I might finish this paper faster.” 

“Tempting,” Baz says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “And yes, I read a fair bit.” 

“Something tells me we’ve got different ideas of what ‘a fair bit’ means,” I tease. 

“I’m halfway through _The Iliad_ at the moment,” he says, “Though I’ve read it before." 

“In English?” I ask suspiciously. 

“Caught me,” he chuckles, and the warmth of the sound is like a punch to the gut. I want to make him laugh again, as often as possible. “It’s in Greek, though I’m having to do more translation work than I’d hoped. My mother would turn in her grave if she could see me poring over my dictionary like this.” 

“So are you secretly brilliant and bilingual, or do your mates at work know as well?” I ask, genuinely curious. Sure, most posh blokes like him go to fancy schools and learn dead languages, but if he’s still at it years later, that makes Baz a proper swot. 

He makes a sort of choking sound. “Oh, yes, because I have so many mates at work,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The most popular bloke in the lunch room.” So he’s openly gay, but a closeted intellectual; interesting. 

“Surely you must have _some,_ ” I insist, piling a small mountain of biscuits on a plate to eat with my tea. “Or are they all afraid of you because you’re the son of the CEO?” 

“Worse,” he groans. “They’re all a bunch of brown-nosers that pretend to like me because I’m the son of the CEO. But I’m a miserable bore, so I know they’re all lying.” 

“You’re right, that is worse,” I agree sympathetically. “And you’d maybe be a bit more fun if you read something written this century?” 

“Heresy,” he accuses. “I have all the friends I could want at work — two, to be exact — and they’re perfectly fine with my reading preferences.” 

“So they mock you about it, then?” 

“Oh, absolutely.” 

I wonder if he’s told them about me, his two friends. Is that the sort of thing someone tells their friends — that they’ve hired someone to be their boyfriend? He’s read my mind, apparently, because that’s exactly where the discussion goes next. 

“Dev and Niall know the truth…about us, that is,” he tells me. “Niall’s in accounting, and Dev works in IT, so there’s no chance they’d ever let it slip to a client, or to my father.” 

“So they won’t be at this dinner, then?” I clarify, feeling a tad disappointed to hear that. It might have been nice to meet his friends. People who think they’re boring always have fun friends. 

“Unfortunately not,” he says, sounding disappointed by this fact as well. “You’d like them, I think. Certainly much more interesting than the twats that I work with.” 

I believe it. 

“And speaking of the twats I work with…” 

* * * * * 

I’m going to be honest — I was sceptical about wearing a green velvet suit jacket, but standing here in front of the mirror at the tailor’s, I see what Baz was on about; I look fantastic, and I feel it, too. I’m relieved that it fits well and doesn’t make me look like the Hulk, because he’s spent a bloody fortune on it, as well as two others he insisted on purchasing (one charcoal grey, and the other burgundy). Someone should probably tell Baz that clothes aren’t disposable and _can_ be worn a second time, or else I’ll have twenty suits by the time all’s said and done. Three suits is already more than I’ve owned in my whole life.

Most of my clothes are second-hand from charity shops, so until now, I’ve never worn something that’s been made specifically for me (‘bespoke’, Baz calls it). My jeans are always a bit too long, too short, or need to be belted round my waist so they don’t fall down my arse as I’m walking, and my shirts are baggy enough I can tuck my legs into it comfortably. 

In contrast, this suit is molded to my body, accentuating all my best features, and generously hiding those I like less. The trouser legs are tapered so that they’re slimmest just above my ankles, and the jacket buttons won’t burst off and hit some unsuspecting dinner guest when I go to stretch. I love the black lapels, and I’m pleased with the bowtie Baz chose to go with the suit, though he says if I use the matching pocket square like a handkerchief to blow my nose, he’ll dissolve our contract immediately. (I’d only do it in a true bogey-related emergency, I’m not an _animal_.) 

Baz is a touch dramatic, so he wants me to stand out at the first event we’re attending together, show me off to his clients and colleagues. I thought it would probably be enough that we’re both blokes, but he’s of the “go big or go home” attitude, and I can respect that. I just hope I don’t spill anything on my new suit, because I’ll be terribly embarrassed if I have to ask him to foot a dry cleaning bill. 

“Well, Mr. Snow, what do you think?” Asks the grey-haired tailor, sticking a pin back into the little pillow strapped to his wrist. He’s got a satin measuring tape hanging around his neck, and rainbow-striped socks; I like his style very much. 

“It’s brilliant,” I admit, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I had my doubts, but…” 

“Mr. Pitch has a fine eye,” he tells me as he picks a loose thread from the sleeve of my jacket. 

“Has he been coming here a while?” I ask, turning to the side to take one last not-so-covert look at my arse. I hate when my trousers cling to it, but these don’t seem to wrinkle or stick to my pants like I thought them might. 

“Oh, yes,” the tailor nods, “Many years. Mr. Pitch became a patron of my shop shortly after the fire, and has sent many customers my way since then. My partner and I are very grateful to him.” 

“There was a fire?” I ask, surprised. There aren’t many things in a tailor’s shop that could start a fire, I don’t think, at least not like there would be somewhere like a restaurant. It must have been serious if he remembers it so clearly. 

“Arson,” he nods gravely. “There was a slew of hate crimes perpetrated against members of the LGBT community around the time that same-sex marriage was legalized in England and Wales, oh, six or so years ago,” he explains, “And because my partner and I were known to be openly gay, our shop was targeted. The fire destroyed half the building, and all of our stock. It was a devastating loss, despite our insurance coverage. But the community rallied around us, and people like Mr. Pitch became regular customers — helped us rebuild from the ground up. We now cater mainly to LGBT clients, and business is better than ever.” 

“I’m so sorry that happened,” I lament, “But I’m glad to hear you’ve been doing well since then. This place is amazing! I never knew suits could come in so many colours and patterns and fabrics.” Ridiculous, I know, but the only suits I was familiar with were the black sort with the coattails and bowties — tuxedoes, I guess. When Baz brought me in here two weeks ago, I was blown away by the variety. Now I understand why he was insistent on coming to a local place instead of some chain formalwear store. It’s more costly here, but the service is fantastic, and the clothes themselves are top-rate. 

“Now, Mr. Snow, I hope you’ll forgive me for being a meddlesome old codger,” the tailor says, lowering his voice to a murmur, “But I’m so glad to see that Mr. Pitch has met a fine young man such as yourself. He’s never spoken about having a boyfriend before in the years we’ve known him, but he’s gone on and on about you.” The man’s brown eyes twinkle brightly, and for a moment I think he’s going to pinch my cheek. 

“Oh, well, I don’t know about all that,” I chuckle awkwardly, not at all used to hearing this sort of praise, especially from people I don’t know. Baz has talked about me to his tailor? “I’m, er, just a regular bloke; _Baz_ is the special one.” 

“I will agree with you there,” he says with a smile. “Mr. Pitch is a special man, and very dear to our hearts. I wish you much happiness in your relationship.” 

I’m relieved that my fitting is done, and that the conversation finishes there. I was pretty sure I was about to receive a shovel talk from my fake boyfriend’s tailor. That’d be a first for me, and perhaps anyone. ‘Treat him well or they’ll never find your body’ discussions traditionally come from best mates, brothers, or fathers, at least in the circles I run in. 

I stop in at the barber’s for a haircut on my way home so that I’ll look decent at dinner. The event, a charity gala at the fucking _Olympia_ at which Grimm Holdings has sponsored several tables, is tomorrow evening. Baz assured me that he won’t have to get up and speak, or do anything that requires leaving me alone at any point, though I think I’ll be fine if he needs to run to the loo or something. I may not be in business like he is, but I have a few good stories up my sleeve that should serve me well. 

We decided our story when we spoke on the phone earlier in the week, and then confirmed over text, and again in an email, because Baz is a self-described neurotic that wants “to make sure we’ve got our i’s dotted and t’s crossed”. We met on the train about six months ago, had a good chat, exchanged numbers, and started dating soon after. If anyone asks, Baz supposedly loves that I’ve got a heart for children in care (though he doesn’t know exactly why), and I’m with him because he’s gorgeous and brilliant (which really isn’t too far off). I’m not too worried about the smaller details, because it’s not as if his clients are going to quiz me on his favourite foods or anything. 

When I get back to the flat later in the day, my new suit in hand, Penny is particularly suspicious, which I really should have anticipated. 

“What’s that for?” she asks, snatching the garment bag from me as soon as I’m in the door. 

“Um, I’m going to a gala tomorrow night?” I tell her, wincing. I’m going to have to tell a few lies. I hate lying to Penny, because she can always tell when I’m doing it. 

“Really? What fo—oh, Simon, this is a nice suit,” she gushes, pawing at the velvet jacket. “ _Really_ nice…how can you afford this?” 

“It was, er—sort of a gift, actually,” I mumble, scratching an itch at the back of my neck. I need a shower to rinse the few stray hairs that managed to thwart the barber’s cape and sneak down past the collar of my shirt. 

“A gift,” Penny repeats, crossing her arms. 

“From my…friend.” There’s no use in lying about this, I suppose. “My friend, Basil.” 

“You’re telling me a _boy_ gave you a £400 suit?" 

“It was more like £700…” I admit. 

“Jesus, Simon!” 

“He’s a toff, and he wanted me to have something decent to wear to this dinner, alright?” I snap. Penny’s eyes go wide. I’m rarely cross with her, but just now I’ve raised my voice. 

“I’m sorry,” she says gently once she’s given me a minute to cool down. “I just…you’ve never mentioned him before, so I was curious. We usually talk about these things.” 

“I was nervous,” I admit, though not just for the reason she thinks. “I’ve not really dated since Agatha, and Baz is a bloke, so…” 

“Simon, you know I don’t care about that, right? You can date whoever you like, as they’re good to you, and I’ll be happy for you.” She slings an arm round my shoulder and pulls me into a side hug, which is arguably much worse than a regular hug. 

“Thanks, Pen,” I say gratefully. “He…he is. Good to me, that is.” 

“Glad to hear it. So…have you got a photo?” 

“Pen!” 

(Yes, yes I do.) 


	4. Chapter 4

Basil Grimm-Pitch does _not_ fuck around when it comes to dressing up for events. He shows up at my door in a fitted black suit that cost probably twice as much as mine. His tie and pocket square are forest green, perfectly matched to the colour of my jacket. 

“Simon,” he greets me, his voice silky smooth. He’s even brought me flowers like a real date would, a bouquet of soft pinks and whites. I have no idea what any of them are, but they smell lovely. I hide the blush rising in my cheeks by shoving them into my face and pretending (or not) to have a sniff. Judging by the smile on Baz’s face, I’ve reacted exactly the way he’s hoped I would. 

“Come in, I’ll put the kettle on,” I suggest, stepping back to allow him inside. He’s a bit early, so I might as well have him sit down for a cuppa before we have to leave. 

“Nice place you have here,” he compliments, just as Penny shouts from her bedroom, “Simon, what time is your boy coming over? That photo you showed me wasn’t good enough!” 

“Photo?” Baz asks. Kill me now. I don’t get a chance to answer, because Penny stomps out into the main area of our flat, already in her pyjamas for the night. 

“Oh!” She squeaks, her eyes flickering from the bouquet in my hand to Baz, who’s seated himself on one of the stools at the island. “Sorry, I didn’t realize…” 

“Pen, this is Baz,” I introduce them as I reach up into one of the cupboards in search of the single vase we own. “Baz, this is my best friend, Penelope Bunce.” 

“So you’re the one who’s finally got Simon to wear something that isn’t trackie bottoms,” she says, accepting my introduction as an invitation to come and harass me in front of my guest. “I never thought I’d see the day.” 

“Oh, really?” Baz hums, raising an eyebrow. “When do _I_ get to see you in trackie bottoms, Simon?” 

_Never, if that’s how you’re going to look at me when I wear them,_ I think to myself. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s just licked his lips at the thought. Trackie bottoms are good for many things, but hiding a stiffy is not one of them. 

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” I joke, though my voice cracks like I’m thirteen again, which cracks Penny right up. “Oi! Shut it, you,” I warn her. “Just walk away and let us have our tea, thanks very much.” 

“Enjoy your evening, boys,” she smiles, giving me what I’m sure she thinks is a sly wink. Baz turns to me, grinning like an idiot, as soon as her door closes. 

“Am I making you nervous, Simon?” He asks innocently. 

“And _you,_ ” I say, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “Make yourself useful and grab the milk from the fridge, or next time, you can sit by the kerb in your fancy car by yourself and wait for me instead of coming up for tea.” 

“Only if you show me the photo.” 

Fuck. 

So, here’s the thing: I stalked Baz on Instagram, found (what I thought was) a brilliant photo, and saved it to my phone. In it, he’s walking down a beach in linen capris and a white short-sleeve button-up, but none of the buttons are actually done up. Did I feel guilty looking at it and thirsting over Baz? Yes. But do I regret it? I do, now. 

Once I’ve pulled up the photo, he accepts my phone with greedy hands and holds it out to have a look. “Simon, what the hell? Why would you show her this one?” he groans. “This is a terrible photo.” 

“What? No it isn’t,” I disagree, pulling down a pair of mugs and setting them out on the counter. “What are you talking about? Look at you, you’re—” 

“I’m not even smiling,” Baz complains. “Come here a moment, we need to fix this.” He opens the camera app and turns it to selfie mode, which he uses to check that his hair is in order. When I’ve joined him at the island, he throws his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, so we’re nearly cheek to cheek. 

“I hate selfies,” I grouch, but I smile for his photo nonetheless. 

“That’s a lie,” he murmurs. “I’ve seen your Instagram, you twit.” 

Shit. Didn’t think about that. 

Once he’s taken a photo he’s pleased with, he tries to upload it to my contacts so that when he calls me, it’ll be what shows up on my screen. Of course, because I’m a fucking idiot, when he types in the first few letters of his name, nothing comes up. He stares at the screen for a moment in confusion. 

“Simon,” he asks quietly, “What’s my name in your phone?” 

“I’ll take that back now,” I yelp, grabbing for my phone, but Baz has longer arms than me, and he’s at least three inches taller. 

“Absolutely _not,_ ” he says gleefully, holding it up above his head. “Tell me what you’ve listed me as and I’ll give it back.” I try to jump for it, but apparently I’ve challenged the world champion at keep-away. I should have known better. “It can’t be that bad, right?” Wrong. 

Admitting defeat, I rest my elbows on the counter and hide my face in my hands as he takes his time scrolling through my contacts. His brows crease more and more as he gets further in the alphabet. He gets all the way to 'V' before he stops. 

“Vamp Daddy,” he reads out loud, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Simon Snow, you fucking nightmare.” 

“Oh my god, I wish I could throw myself out the window right about now,” I moan, my voice muffled by my hands. “Just kill me.” Baz quietly finishes his task, and the plastic case on my phone clicks against the counter as he sets it down. 

A moment later, I feel something brush across the back of my jacket; Baz has stepped as close as he can without actually touching me. I drop my hands to the counter and freeze. Slowly, very slowly, he reaches around my body, and the thumb and index finger of his right hand come to rest against my jaw. As he tilts my head back, exposing my throat above my collar, he shifts himself so that his mouth hovers right over my jugular vein. 

“Is this how you like it, Simon?” he murmurs, licking his lips. With anyone else, this would be so, so creepy, but the heat of his breath against my skin is going _straight_ to my dick. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? 

“Baz,” I choke out, “We should…we’re going to be late. For the dinner.” I don’t think either of us actually gives a fuck about being late right at this moment, but I thought I’d mention it just in case. 

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Penny grouses loudly, stepping out of her room and swiftly ending whatever was happening between us. Baz releases me and steps back, instead busying himself with making up two cups of tea. 

“Sorry, Pen,” I groan, turning my back to her so I can readjust myself in my trousers, doing my best to think unsexy thoughts. “Won’t happen again.” Even when the bathroom door clicks shut, Baz stays on the other side of the kitchen. 

“Are you alright?” I ask softly, regarding him and his impassive expression. 

“I’m fine,” he assures me, but my senses tell me that something is off. “What do you take in your tea?” 

“Bit of sugar, bit more milk,” I answer, padding across the kitchen towards him. “Thanks.” I go to brush my fingers against his when he sets my cup on the counter, but he snatches his hand away quickly. _Oh._ Did he not…was he only joking, or…? 

We drink our tea in silence, and when Baz glances down at his watch and says it’s time to go, we keep our distance on the way down to the car. 

* * * * * 

As soon as we step into the gala venue, Baz becomes a complete different man. Gone are the sarcasm and dry humour I’ve gotten to know through texts and phone calls in the month since I’ve met him. He’s polite to everyone, but holds himself at a distance, and keeps up a prim and polished exterior. He’s just trying to get through the night with his sanity intact, I think. 

“Basil, good to see you,” a man at our table greets him as we step up to find our seats. “Hope the New Year is treating you well.” 

“Yes, thank you,” Baz nods stiffly, shaking the man’s hand and nodding to the woman seated to his left. “And yourself, David?” 

“As well as can be expected,” the fellow says, barely giving me a cursory glance. “Business is booming, and that makes me a happy man.” Baz sets a hand on my lower back and pulls out my chair for me, leaning in close for a moment. 

“This guy is a right prick, but an important one,” he whispers, his mouth almost touching my ear, “So don’t let him rile you up. Just let me deal with it if he gets weird.” He presses a quick kiss to my cheek, which I take as my cue to sit down. 

“And who have you brought along tonight, Basil?” David the Important Prick asks, apparently having caught on to our subtle exchange. 

“This is my boyfriend, Simon,” Baz says, settling his arm along the back of my chair. “Simon, meet David Mage and his wife, Lucy.” The woman across the table smiles listlessly in my direction; she seems to be off in another world. That’s alright, though; not everyone is into these large events, I’m sure. 

“David is a longtime client of ours at Grimm Holdings,” Baz continues. “He’s the president of Watford Real Estate, which you might be familiar with.” 

Oh, I’m familiar with it alright. Watford Real Estate recently bought up several blocks of flats — all low-income estate housing, with the majority rented by immigrant and refugee newcomer families — in the east end of London. There was an uproar about it in the news and among social workers in the city, because Watford specializes in converting older buildings into high-end condominium complexes — in other words, gentrification. David Mage and his company are responsible for hundreds of families losing their homes every year, and judging by the smile on his face right now, he does it without remorse. 

“Never heard of it,” I say politely. 

“Hmm,” Baz shrugs, settling one cool hand over my knee in silent praise. I have a strong feeling that if I can manage to subtly piss David Mage off with polite, well-placed comments throughout the night, that hand might continue to inch its way up my thigh. I think I’d like to find out. 

* * * * * 

After dinner, there’s to be dancing, and I don’t know how I feel about that. I’m a terrible dancer, and Baz probably took lessons as a child with all his posh friends, so if he wants me to dance with him, he’ll have to suffer through me stepping on his feet every ten seconds. I’m opposed to dancing, right up until David Mage opens his stupid mouth. 

“Well, we’re off to the dance floor, Lucy and I,” he announces to the table once the music has started up. “I’m sure if you or Simon wanted to join, Basil, some lovely young lady would be willing to lend you both a few minutes of her time.” 

“What do you mean by that, David?” I ask, feigning confusion. If he’s going to be a shit because we’re gay, or because he thinks I’m too poor to have ever had the chance to learn, I want to hear him say it out loud, in front of other people. Let him humiliate himself. 

“Well, I mean…surely you’re both capable, but…” He stumbles over his words, trying to backtrack, but it’s too late. “Who would lead?” 

What a dumb fucking question. 

“Let’s go, darling,” I say, taking Baz’s hand and pulling him from his seat. “Baz is _always_ the lead,” I tell David, cocking a suggestive eyebrow. 

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Baz declares, pulling me close once we’ve taken our place among the other swaying couples. I settle my gaze on his expression, which softens right away. “I wish I’d thought about this sooner. Put David fucking Mage in his place.” 

“Hmm, you’d have had to take some other bloke, then,” I correct him, “And I can’t guarantee that he’d be as good at dancing, or at subtly insulting your clients, as I am.” I’ve already stepped on his feet twice, and we’ve been out here for half a minute, max. A raccoon would be a better dance partner than I am. 

“Hmm, well, I don’t care much for dancing anyway,” he shrugs, pulling me closer. “Though I suppose I’ll have to get you into lessons if you’re to keep attending these with me.” 

“No thanks,” I decline, pulling a disgusted face, “Dancing’s well gay.” 

“ _We’re_ well gay,” he snorts, burying his laughter in the collar of my suit jacket. My cheeks warm at the memory of his breath on my neck earlier today, and I feel him freeze up again as he remembers, too. He straightens back up, resets his stoic expression. 

“What’s wrong?” I murmur, turning my cheek inward and grazing it against his. The faintest hint of stubble on his jaw scrapes my skin, and I find myself repeating the motion, enjoying the faint burning sensation. “Baz, talk to me.” 

“You look ridiculously fit in this suit,” he says by way of explanation. 

“What are you going to do about it?” I prompt gently, sliding one hand from his shoulder down to his chest. It’s subtle, so that no one will look at us and think we’re acting like twenty year olds trying to grind against each other at the club or something inappropriate, but enough to get his attention. 

“I’m going to dance with you a few minutes longer, and then drop you off at home,” he answers firmly. “Because _that_ is not part of this arrangement.” 

“I mean, it could be,” I mumble under my breath. “I’m not saying no.” But Baz’s hearing is too sharp for his own good. 

“I’m not asking you to—to prostitute yourself,” he hisses in my ear. “We said work dinners and phone calls, Simon. We’ve drawn the line, and it’s staying there.” 

“I don’t understand,” I frown. “I’m not…Baz, I’m not flirting with you because of _that._ Listen to me,” I insist, pulling back so I can look him in the eye. “What happened in the kitchen today is completely different than this.” 

“We’ll talk about it in the car,” he says, reaching up to brush a curl from my forehead. “Just, let’s dance a bit longer, keep things simple, like we talked about.” 

“Baz…” 

“Please,” he begs, leaning his forehead against mine. “Don’t make things harder than they need to be right now, _please._

“Okay, fine.” I angle my chin up and press a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. Surely that’s allowed? 

We finish our dance, return to the table to say our farewells, and head to the doors of the venue, where we have wait a few minutes for the valet to bring the car around. At the two minute mark, I was ready to find the valet, shake him down, grab the keys and find the bloody car myself, but I didn't, because grabbing another man and screaming, _"I need these keys so the man financing my education will explain why he won't push me up against the wall of an alley right this moment!"_ in his face isn't an appropriate response to having to wait for a service. 

Maybe, just _maybe,_ I was wrong when I thought this wouldn't be complicated. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but I wanted to do justice to their heart-to-heart, so I decided to keep it as a stand-alone.

**Baz**

I need to get the fuck out of here. _We_ need to get the fuck out of here. The valet must have thrown my keys in the river and gone in after them, because according to my watch, it’s been eight bloody minutes since he went to retrieve the Jag. Simon is practically vibrating with restless energy, and all of mine is being funnelled into avoiding eye contact and keeping a six-foot distance from him at all times. The images next to the words “patience” and “self-control” in the dictionary are just my face; I was raised to be — expected to be — both. 

We signed a contract for a reason. I needed something from Simon, and he needs something from me. No, scratch that — I _want_ something from Simon, and he _needs_ something from me. He’s got to get through the semester, cover his expenses. I can’t fuck things up with him, because he needs my money, and he won’t take it from me as a gift if something goes south between us. He has no idea, but things are so close to going wrong. I can see the line clearly set out before me, and Simon is on the other side, begging me to cross. If I give him an inch on my side, I know he’ll take a mile. 

Oh, thank fuck — the valet is back. I shove a crisp 50 quid note into his hand as he passes me the keys, and Simon zips around to the passenger side before I can ask him to wait. I need to roll the windows down. I need to breathe, to remain calm, and I can’t do that with him right next to me, with him touching me, staring at me like he wants me to do something untoward and not apologize for it. It’s too much. I just need to focus on watching the road ahead, avoiding collisions, keeping my cool. We’ll be back at his flat in twenty. I can do twenty minutes. Can he? 

As soon as we’ve pulled onto the high street, he’s sideways in his seat. “Stop the car,” he demands, pointing to the parking lane of a nearby side street. “Baz, pull off.” 

“That’s not a good idea, Simon,” I tell him, clenching my jaw tightly. It aches something fierce because I’ve been tensing the muscles there all night, willing myself to keep it together. I need to come up with something fast here, because Simon is raring for a fight. This is a delicate situation that requires the utmost poise and pragmatism. He’s a proud man, and I respect that, but it makes things…difficult. 

“Why not?” he hisses, glaring at me from beneath furrowed brows. “Baz, I felt something tonight, and I know you did, too. What’s so bad about just, oh, I dunno, letting that feeling go somewhere?” 

“I told you, it’s not that simple.” 

“Well then, _make_ it that simple!” He growls through gritted teeth. 

“Okay, fine,” I huff, slowing to a stop at a red light. Even this late, there’s still a fair amount of traffic, so we have a minute or two before I’ll need to concentrate again. “Let me pose a hypothetical for you: if I were your boyfriend — no contract, no pre-arranged work engagements, just a bloke you met on a dating app — would you let me write cheques to cover your tuition and rent?” 

“If you were…” His hard expression falters as he considers my words. “No, of course not. You can’t just _give me money._ ” 

“Exactly. That’s why I can’t do what you’re asking of me,” I explain, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “You need money, and I want you to have it. If you’re going to accept it, you need to be doing me a service — _earning_ it, as you said the day we met. I’m paying you to be my companion under a very specific set of circumstances, and if I amend those circumstances, my morals don’t allow me to continue the agreement we made.” 

I can practically hear the wheels turning in his brain, the grind is so loud. Simon is an intelligent man, but his processing speed is much slower, requires more energy. I give him a minute to work through the implications of my words. 

“So, you _do_ like me. As more than a ‘companion’,” clarifies. 

“Yes.” 

“What happened today in the kitchen, that was real, yeah?” 

“Yes.” _God, yes._ That was _everything._

“You wanted to…you wanted me.” 

“I _want_ you,” I correct him factually. “Very much.” My heart is beating so hard, so fast that I can practically feel it in my throat. It’s crawled upwards in my chest, trying to get out so I can hold it in my hands, give it to Simon and ask him to keep it safe for me. 

“But you won’t sleep with me and still pay me to date you.” 

“You aren’t a sex worker. Not that I have any issue with those who choose to do sex work — work is work — but I’m not comfortable with pursuing a legitimate physical relationship with you under our current circumstances.” 

“And you don’t want to break the contract and let me find someone else—” 

“No,” I snap, wincing at the sharp flare of possessiveness I feel over him. “I don’t want…I can’t stand the thought of someone else getting to…I can’t do that.” 

“Right,” he sighs, swallowing hard. “Okay. So, what, we set boundaries?” 

“We have boundaries,” I remind him. “The contract. We can talk once a week over the phone for half an hour, and attend my work events every two to three weeks. No lunch dates, no late night cuddles in front of the telly.” 

“Texting?” 

“Same as we currently do. No…no photos, or videos, or breathy audio clips,” I rasp, my trousers growing tight at just the thought of receiving that sort of thing from him. “I’m a very patient man, Simon, but—” 

“But I’m not,” he finishes poutingly. “I’m pants at self-control, and I kept proving it to you tonight by trying to, y’know, jump your bones in my kitchen.” 

“Precisely. Though I shouldn’t have…I crossed a line there, too.” It won’t happen again. It can’t, if I’m going to hold on to Simon. I’m desperate for him. He’s a ray of eternal sunshine in my dismal, drear world of corporate monotony. 

“Okay, so…so we keep things professional until I’ve finished my coursework,” he reasons, shrugging it off as though it’s just going to be another walk in the park for him. 

“Our contract expires at the end of May,” I prompt. “You’ll have finished your exams then, and your convocation is in June.” I’ve got it all written out in my calendar. 

“And right now it’s…fuck, okay, I see what you mean.” _February._ It’s fucking _February._ “Cool. Well, that’s going to be…tough.” 

“That’s a word we could use, yes.” It doesn't even scrape the surface. Three months is an eternity when the only thing you want in the world is right in front of you. Simon at least has distractions — school, work, friends and family. I’m just going to be a pining fool. I pity Dev and Niall for having to be around me. 

“Baz?” Simon’s voice is soft, vulnerable. 

He’s baring his soul to me, and I don’t know yet what I’m being shown. We’ve talked over the phone, we’ve gone to dinner, and we’re texting constantly, but there’s so much of him that is protected. I adore what I’ve seen so far, which is why I’m so keen on protecting the fledgeling that is our relationship. It isn’t love yet, but it feels like the sort of thing that could so easily _become_ love. 

“Yes?” I ask. We’ve arrived outside his flat, so I pull up beside the kerb and shift into park. 

“Is it just me, or does this…feel like the real deal?” He asks, pressing through whatever discomfort, whatever hardship he’s experienced in his life that has him holding his heart close. “This isn’t just physical. I mean, it’s that too,” he amends quickly, “But it feels like more. Like everything.” 

“It has potential to be, yes,” I nod. He needs to know. 

“Oh-kay,” he says, drawing out the vowels as he thinks over my words. “I guess I should go inside, then, if you’re not coming up.” 

“I shouldn’t, and shan’t,” I agree, a tiny smile crossing my lips. “We’ll have to act like our grandparents did when they were our age, minus the part where I haven’t asked your father if I can court you." 

When Simon freezes up at the word ‘father’, I fear I’ve made a grievous mistake. 

“I…” he croaks, closing his eyes. He grips the door handle tightly, holding on for dear life. “I have…there’s so much you don’t know about me, Baz.” Simon purses his lips and blows out a long, even breath to calm himself. I want to reach out and comfort him, but I need to be so, so careful right now. Until things are less fragile, less new, Simon and I are walking on eggshells around each other. 

“We have time,” I say, hoping it’s received as a comfort. Simon nods, clenches his jaw for a spell, and releases it before turning to me. 

“Thank you for tonight. It was…” 

“Everything,” I finish, and he nods. 

We don’t kiss, though we desperately want to. It’s too much, too intimate, too soon. Like I said, we have time, and plenty of it. Simon steps out of the vehicle, shuts the door gingerly, and heads for the door of his building. Once he’s got the door open, he turns around and waves to me, stands in the doorway for an entire eon before heading upstairs. 

As the light in his flat flickers on, I shift the car into first gear and slowly, achingly slowly, drive off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do we feel about getting to see things from Baz's perspective for the first time in this story?


	6. Chapter 6

With the rules of the contract keeping us at arm’s length, the weekly half-hour phone calls become pure gold to me. Baz sets an alarm so he doesn’t take up more of my time than we agreed to, though I could listen to him talk all day about literally anything. Somehow, he’s made his Greek translation work sound so interesting, so compelling, that he’s convinced me to read a modern adaption of the Iliad, called _The Song of Achilles_. He ordered it for me online and had it shipped over earlier in the week. Turns out Achilles and his mate Patroclus were more than just mates — who knew?

One thing the contract doesn’t limit is gifts, which Baz uses to his advantage. First, it was the suits and flowers. Now it’s books, food (which I could never turn down), and last week, a pair of trainers he thought I would like, because I once mentioned than mine were falling apart. When I was a few minutes late for a call one evening because I lost track of time, he had a watch delivered to me at work the following day. Any time I protest about all the money he’s spending, he says it’s just par for the course for the sort of arrangement we’re in. I called bollocks on that, but of course he ignored me. 

Penny stays quiet about all the gifts for about a month. I know she’s concerned, because every time I walk into the sitting room with something she doesn’t recognize, she gets this worrisome wrinkle between her eyebrows. I appreciate her watching out for me, but it’s also my life, and I should be allowed to accept gifts from whoever I damn well please. 

My moment of reckoning comes when I arrive home to find Agatha seated at the kitchen island with a glass of wine at 3PM weekday. Usually I work after class on Wednesdays, but I’ve been able to cut back a bit on my hours with the extra money I’ve got coming in. 

“Simon, can we talk?” Penny asks in a strangled voice. I set my school bag down by the door and grab a stool beside Agatha. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, leaning in close so Penny won’t hear us. “I assumed she knew about things with Baz.” 

Fuck. “Probably should’ve told her about that,” I mumble. 

“Should have told me what, Simon?” Penny inquires, glaring at me through her cat’s-eye spectacles. Whenever I’ve done something wrong, she gets this disappointed, superior, motherly sort of look on her face, which I hate. She’s not in charge of my life. 

“Baz and I are…well, it’s a bit complicated, Penny,” I sigh. 

“That’s a word for it,” she scoffs. “‘Complicated.’ Simon, he’s _paying_ you to date him! What the fuck were you thinking, starting up something like this?” 

Oh, no no no. Penelope Bunce does not get to fucking judge me. She’s got no problem paying her half of the rent every month because her parents chip in whenever she asks for a few quid. We’re both set to graduate this spring, but Penny doesn’t have to work nearly full-time to make ends meet, because the Bunces set aside money for her schooling. I don’t have any of those luxuries, so who is she to get in my face about _what I was thinking_ when I agreed to date Baz? 

“Let’s see, what could I have been thinking?” I hum, striking a dramatic pose with my fist balled up beneath my chin like that statue I’ve seen photos of. “I dunno, Pen, maybe I was thinking, ‘It sure would be nice to make rent this month and still be able to afford groceries afterwards’. Or maybe I wanted to have enough money to cut back on my hours at work so I’d be able to spend more time on schoolwork. I can’t afford to retake a class next term, because I could hardly afford to take it this term! But yes, Pen, how fucking dare I take matters into my own hands?” 

“He could have been a catfish, Simon!” Penny argues, throwing her hands up in frustration. “For all you knew, he could have had a criminal record for—for assault, or theft, or _worse_!” 

“But he didn’t,” I point out. “And in case Agatha didn’t mention, I didn’t meet up with him alone. She came along, and we met in a public place. I’m not an idiot.” With the way she looks at me sometimes, you’d think I was. 

“That’s not even the worst part, Simon,” Penny shrieks. “I’ve heard you on the phone with him. You actually like him, and you’ve convinced yourself he likes you back! You’re letting him have his way with you, so long as—as what, he pays your rent? Buys you expensive clothes and shoes?” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I warn her, standing up from my seat and backing up towards the door of our flat. “It isn’t like that, Penny.” 

“Simon, I know it’s been tough for you, not having family to pitch in when you’re skint,” Penny starts, but I cut her off. “But you don’t need to sell your body to pay for school. My parents would help you out if you just—" 

“Don’t,” I say, snatching up my bag and hauling it over my shoulder. The strap rubs painfully against my arm, but I barely feel it. “Don’t say anything else.” 

“I’m sorry,” Agatha mouths, but I shake my head. This isn’t her fault. I should have explained the whole thing to Penny before it grew into this huge issue. I know she’s not meaning to be hurtful, but she doesn’t know the story. She and Agatha are the closest thing I have to family, as she has so tactfully reminded me, so of course they want me to be safe, but Penny can’t seem to understand that times were desperate. 

“I’m going out for a while,” I tell Penny, meeting her eyes warily. “Maybe we can try to talk again when I come back.” 

“Where are you going?” She asks, startled. “You’ve only just got home.” 

“Dunno, maybe the library,” I mutter, but my mind is already set on calling Baz. If I ask, I know he’ll come see me. All I want right now is for him to sit with me, let me soak up his calm energy. He’ll know the right thing to say to settle me down. 

“Be home before dark,” Penny insists. 

“Yeah, maybe,” I shrug, yanking the door open. 

“And take a broll—” Her voice cuts off as I slam it shut behind me. 

As soon as I’m outside the building, I’ve got my phone in hand. The photo of Baz and I in the kitchen together from the first event we attended together lights up the screen as the call rings through, but it sends me to voicemail. 

_“You’ve reached Basil Grimm-Pitch,”_ his voice says, tinny through the shit phone speaker. _“I’m unavailable to take your call at this moment, but if you could leave your name, number, and a brief message, I’ll return your call as soon as I’m able. Ta.”_

Shit. It’s quarter past three. Of course he’s not answering — he’s at work. I consider going back to the flat, but I’m still too angry to confront Penny. Instead, I pull my coat a little tighter round me because it’s bloody freezing, and there’s a sharp wind nipping at any bit of exposed skin it can find. When I glance up at the overcast sky above, I notice a few fat grey clouds just waiting to open up and dump buckets onto unsuspecting, defenceless pedestrians. 

I wander aimlessly for a while, occasionally taking shelter beneath open-fronted bus shelters, which don’t help much when the rain is blowing at me horizontally. By the time I’ve been walking a half-hour, my clothes are soaked through, my teeth are chattering, and I’m absolutely miserable. I could duck into a cafe or something, I suppose, but I really want to save my money for when I really need it. 

I take a look at my surroundings and realize I’ve subconsciously steered myself towards Baz. The large complex that houses the Grimm Holdings offices is just a block away. It’s a few minutes past 4:00, so Baz is probably still in. I know he said no lunch dates, but this circumstance is a bit different than normal. Perhaps he’ll have already gone home for the day, and I’ll be wasting my time stopping in at reception to ask for him. 

One more gust of freezing wind rattling through me makes my mind up: I’ll go in, just in case. 

The reception area of Grimm Holdings is well-lit, and boasts a quaint little seating area with leather armchairs, a few potted plants, and some reading material. The receptionist is young — around my age — and sits chattering away into her headset, responding to requests from upstairs and transferring incoming calls. I stand in front of the desk, dripping water like a character out of a comic book onto the freshly-mopped tile floor. She glances up at me and grimaces as if someone has dropped a drowned rat down in front of her. 

“Can I help you?” she inquires politely. 

“Er, I’m just wondering if Baz—I mean, Basil Grimm-Pitch, is in,” I say, rocking slowly back and forth on the balls of my feet. She narrows her eyes and looks me up and down, sceptical about calling the CEO’s son for some bloke wandering around in soggy clothes. 

“And who shall I say is calling?” 

“Simon Snow, please,” I tell her, shoving my hands up into my armpits in hopes that it might warm them up. She keeps her eyes on me as she dials up, in case I wander off and start dripping on the upholstery or digging through bins for food. She passes along my message in a terse voice, though she nods at me once she’s hung up, which makes me hopeful. 

After a few minutes, the bell of lift across the lobby dings, and out steps Baz in all his corporate suited glory. When he catches sight of me, sopping wet and miserable, he breaks into what’s quite nearly a jog, grabbing me by the shoulders when he reaches me. 

“Simon, are you alright?” He asks, gripping me firmly. One hand goes to my cheek, and he turns my head to the left, and then to the right, checking my eyes and face for signs of injury or perhaps intoxication. “Jesus, you’re soaked through. You didn’t _walk_ here, did you?” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to show up unannounced,” I apologize softly. “I had an argument with Penny, needed to get out of the flat, and I just sort of…walked in. I should go, though. You’re obviously busy. Didn’t really think about that, honestly.” 

Baz dips his head and presses a warm kiss to my mouth right in front of the receptionist. Her mouth drops open to reveal a sizeable wad of pink chewing gum. I almost want to turn to her and imitate Baz’s sarcastic drawl — _Take a photo, it’ll last longer._

“Let’s get you some dry things,” he says decidedly, kissing me once more for good measure before peeling off his suit jacket and setting it over my shoulders as an added layer of warmth. “You must be freezing.” I’m embarrassed by how dopey in the head these two decidedly unsexy kisses make me. 

“S’a bit cold out,” I admit weakly, allowing him to guide me into the lift across the lobby. Inside, he holds the prox card, attached to his belt by a retractable lanyard, up to the contactless card reader. When the indicator bulb on the reader blinks green, he hits the round button labelled ‘7’. 

“Where do Dev and Niall work?” I inquire, pointing at the key pad. _What floor?_

“Accounting takes up all of three, and IT is tucked away in a little back office on two,” he answers, taking on a pinched expression. “I’ve a feeling that Kerris, who you’ve just met, will make sure they know you’re in the building. She’s a bit of a gossip, that one.” 

“You kissed a bloke in front of the most powerful person in this building,” I remind him with a crooked smile. “What’d you expect?” 

“Hmm, is that what I did?” he asks dreamily. “Perhaps I should do it again.” 

I’ve broken our rules by showing up here, but Baz seems to have waived them for the time being because next minute, he’s snogging me in the lift without a care in the world. But I suppose we _are_ at his work, and our arrangement _is_ work-related — a sort of loophole, if you will. 

He’s given up caring about all sorts of things today, it seems, because he also isn’t bothered by the fact that I’m getting his nice work jacket all wet. I say as much, and he just shrugs and says airily, “This isn’t my favourite jacket.” 

“Posh twat,” I mutter affectionately. 

The lift dings as it stops on the seventh floor, which serves as Baz’s cue to (reluctantly) step back and create an appropriate distance between us. When the door slides open, we step out into a room that’s surprisingly quiet for how large it is. One wall is lined with offices, likely belonging to the higher-ups, and in the centre are rows of cubicles. 

“I’m just over here,” he says, pointing to an office in the corner. It’s a tidy little room, with a sleek, modern desk and chair, a neatly-labelled filing cabinet, and relatively few personal affects. A black peacoat hangs on a rack in the corner beside a cozy, brown leather armchair occupied by a tote bag from a posh athletic wear shop. 

“This is, erm…nice,” I come up with, and Baz laughs. 

“My flat has a bit more personality,” he assures me. 

“But you spend so much time here,” I say, frowning. “You couldn’t, I dunno, get a plant or something? A bit of art for the wall?” 

“That’s…not actually a terrible idea,” he concedes, pondering the idea as he digs into the bag on the armchair. From it, he pulls a pair of trackie bottoms and a heather gray t-shirt. “Here, you can try these on. The shirt might be a bit tight on you, though.” I slip his jacket off and hang it up on his coat rack, and he points me to the loo, which is on the other side of the floor’s main office area. 

There’s an awkward exchange of smiles in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, mostly because I’m visibly damp and disheveled, and the bloke at the sinks has never seen me before. Once I’ve shut myself in a stall, I strip out of my jeans and shirt, only to find that my vest top and pants are wet through as well. I’ve no choice but to hang free, which I’m sure will have me blushing for the rest of the day because as I’ve mentioned before, trackie bottoms aren’t brilliant for concealing one’s dangly bits. At least they’re loose-fitting. 

I leave the bathroom clutching my wet clothes in a ball in front of my crotch, just in case. From what I could see in the mirror, everything was fine, but I don’t want to bump into one of Baz’s colleagues and scar him for life. It’s just my luck, though, that as I walk back to his office, I spy several men loitering outside, chatting with him in the doorway. Two are our age — Dev and Niall, presumably; and the other, a middle-aged man with white hair, holds a frightening resemblance to Baz. 

“Here he is, the man of the hour!” announces the bloke in a grey polo shirt bearing the Grimm Holdings logo. That’s Dev, I’d guess; he’s got a company phone holstered at his belt and a Bluetooth earpiece hooked round his right ear. Seems like an IT uniform, if such a thing exists. 

“Simon, I’m terribly sorry,” Baz says with a sigh, “But there are a few people who’d like to meet you while you’re here. Dev and Niall, of course,” he gestures to each man in turn, “And as you can probably guess, my father, Malcolm Grimm.” The white haired man glances down at the wad of clothes in my hands and chooses to nod in greeting instead of attempting to shake my hand. Good thing, because they’re still a bit damp. 

“Nice to meet you all,” I say, feeling suddenly shy. These are people I’ve heard stories about in our phone calls, people who matter a lot to Baz. I don’t want to mess up and say something stupid in front of them. Dev and Niall at least know the situation in part; I have no idea what Mr. Grimm knows about us. 

“He’s cute,” Dev declares, earning a jab in the spleen from Niall and another long sigh from Baz. Mr. Grimm just looks amused. 

“ _Simon_ is standing right here, _Dev,_ ” Niall hisses. 

“Yes, yes, I’m terribly sorry, how rude of me,” Dev huffs. “ _You’re_ cute, Simon. D’you prefer if I direct my compliments at you?” 

“Um…” I glance up at Baz, whose pained expression tells me he’d like to get the fuck out of here just as much as I would. 

“Devereaux, leave the poor boy alone,” Mr. Grimm scolds him with a cluck of his tongue. “Simon, I apologize for my nephew and his _distinct_ lack of manners.” 

“S’alright, sir,” I shrug good-naturedly. I didn’t know Dev and Baz were related. 

“We’ll be going now,” Baz asserts, pushing between his friends so that he can stand beside me. “Simon and I have plans this evening, so if you don’t mind, gentlemen…” 

“You’re not skipping pub night?” Dev asks, incredulous. “Baz, what the hell? It’s _tradition._ ” 

“Dev, he says they have plans,” Niall rebuffs. “Don’t be an arse. It won’t kill us to get a takeaway and watch telly at home instead. In fact, your liver will thank you tomorrow.” 

“Well, we could go to the pub, couldn’t we?” I ask, glancing up at Baz. “If it’s what you’d usually do. I don’t want to make you change plans just for me.” 

“There’s a lad,” Dev hoots, throwing a playful punch at my shoulder. “See, Baz, Simon wants to come to pub night, too. You can’t say no to that, can you?” 

“I’ll think I’ve leave you to it, then,” Mr. Grimm announces, tapping his watch. “Enjoy your evening, boys.” He heads off towards the lift after exchanging a curious look with Baz, who is unusually quiet beside me. 

“So?” Dev asks, throwing an arm around Niall’s shoulders. “O’Malley’s it is? Seven o’clock?” 

“Fine,” Baz says tightly. “We’ll meet you there.”


	7. Chapter 7

****

**Simon Snow + Agatha Wellbelove**

**Simon:** Hey are you and Pen still at home 

**Agatha:** _No, she’s at mine_

**Agatha:** _Are you okay???_

**Simon:** Ya just a bit wet, forgot my brolly 

**Simon:** Off to the pub with Baz n his mates, but need to change first 

**Agatha:** _Coast is clear_

**Simon:** thanks Ags 

**Agatha:** _Sorry again about telling Penny…_

**Simon:** Not ur fault. Should have said something sooner anyway 

**Agatha:** _Have fun with the boys!_

**Agatha:** _don’t get too sozzled xoxo_

**Simon:** 🥴 

* * * * *

Baz waits in the car while I run up to change. He's a bit wary of being alone with me in the flat, which I suppose is fair. I know the only reason he’s agreed to pub night is that we’ll be in public, and his friends will be there, so we can’t get into too much trouble. If I hadn’t gotten into it with Penny this afternoon, he would be a lot more hesitant about taking advantage of this “work-adjacent activity” loophole we’ve discovered, but we haven’t seen each other in nearly three weeks, and we’ve missed being together in person. 

Pub night at O’Malley’s, I learn on the drive over, is a weekly tradition that started in his first year at uni. Dev and Niall, who shared a room in the men’s residence hall at the college they all attended, would invite Baz (a self-admitted party pooper) to join them for cheap pint nights at the campus pub. When the Grimms got jobs at Baz’s father’s firm the following summer, they put in a good word for Niall, who secured an internship as an accounting clerk. And the rest is history, or so Baz says; I think he’s just trying to keep me from asking too many questions of his friends, who know all the sordid details and secrets about his life. 

(No way in hell am I passing up the opportunity to ask questions about him.) 

O’Malley’s is a hole in the wall in Marylebone located just below a café at street-level, accessible by a set of crumbling cement stairs that lead down into the basement of the building. Inside, the noise level is perfectly respectable for a Thursday night. There’s a league match on one of the flatscreens, Warrington at Leeds, which I meant to record at home but forgot in the melée with Penny the afternoon. Perhaps it’ll be visible from our table so I can keep an eye on the score. 

Baz catches sight of his friends and gives them a wave, but we stop at the bar for drinks before wandering over. He’s graduated to wine since his uni days, so he orders a glass of cabernet for himself, and a lager each for Dev and Niall. I’m not a posh git like Baz, so I opt for a pint of stout. With drinks in hand, we head for the table, and are received with open arms by both men. 

“Nice of you to join us, boys,” Dev cheers, planting a kiss on Baz’s cheek as he slides into the booth beside him. I take the open space next to Niall, whose pale cheeks are already flushed pink, and it’s only quarter past seven. “Get up to anything exciting at Snow’s flat, or…” 

“Piss off,” Baz grunts, taking a long sip from his glass. “Simon needed to change, and I waited in the car.” 

“Glad you could come tonight,” Niall murmurs to me over the din. “Everyone knows _about_ you, but you’re actually Baz’s best-kept secret. The Grimms are a bit possessive over their blokes, you’ll come to learn.” He nods at the pair across the table from us, who until now I’ve not had a good chance to compare. The resemblance is subtle, but definitely there: sharp eyebrows and prominent noses, with matching widow’s peaks, though Baz’s is much more pronounced because of the way he wears his hair. Dev, who Niall tells me is half-Indian on his mother’s side, has darker eyes and skin than Baz, but is of similar height, at least sitting down. 

“Have you ordered food?” Baz asks Niall, who is apparently the organizer of the group. 

“Just fish and chips,” Niall answers, “So if you want something else, you’ll have to call for it yourself.” Baz shakes his head, but looks to me for confirmation. 

“Fine by me,” I shrug. “As long as there’s enough to go round, I’m happy.” 

While we wait for our food, we make casual conversation, nothing too deep: sport, school, and work, mostly. I can’t contribute much when the discussion falls around Grimm Holdings, but I like to listen to Baz and his friends bicker about what it’s like to work for his father. 

“You’d think Uncle Mal would cut us some slack, seeing as we’re his family,” Dev complains to me, “But he expects more of Baz and I than practically anyone else.” 

“It’s almost like he doesn’t want to be accused of nepotism,” Niall mumbles, earning a sharp snort from Baz. The dynamic between the three friends isn’t so different from that of my own group, though Baz is clearly the de facto leader, whereas my friendship is more of an equal footing sort of deal. 

At one point, Niall excuses himself to the loo, and Dev follows shortly after, which I think nothing of despite Baz’s eye roll. It gives us a moment alone, which I use to sneak over to his side of the booth for a quick kiss. His mouth is salty and warm, and tastes of vinegar and chips. 

I’m three pints in by then, and I try to hold it until at least one of them comes back, but it gets to the point where I’m worried I’ll piss myself if I don’t go. Baz wishes me well for some strange reason, and it’s only once I’ve shoulder my way into the gents and am standing at the urinal, fly undone, that I realize his meaning. 

One of the stalls across the bathroom is occupied, but it’s pretty clear from the jostling of the metal door and the two sets of men’s shoes visible beneath the stall that some blokes are in there, getting off together. I avert my gaze and try focus on my own business so I don’t piss down the front of my trousers, but find myself glancing over again when I hear a sharp intake of breath, and then the very distinct voice of Dev Grimm. “Niall, _please,_ ” he whines. 

“Be quiet, or we’ll get caught,” Niall scolds him. Cue obscene wet slurping noises. _Ugh._

I shake off, tuck myself back into my y-fronts, and zip up my trousers before hurrying to the sinks to wash my hands. The sooner I get out of this bathroom, the less likely I am to hear anything else that can’t be un-heard. 

When I return to the table, Baz takes one look at my disturbed expression and bursts into snickering laughter, knowing exactly what I’ve just witnessed. “I told you to hold it,” he says diplomatically. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

“Yes, but you didn’t say _why,_ ” I groan, pushing the tray of chips to the other side of the table. I don’t need any more food, and I probably won’t be able to do anything but stare at my lap when Dev and Niall return from their bathroom escapades. “My ears have been defiled. Are they always this…” 

“Randy in public?” Baz supplies, his mouth twisted into a bemused smile. “Worse when they’ve been drinking, especially Niall. Dev’s a bit of a prude, but he goes along with it because who doesn’t want to get—” 

“Aaaand that’s enough of that,” I crow, cutting him off mid-sentence. It’s not that I’m particularly a prude or anything like that; I’m just not terribly interested in hearing the dirty details of my friends’ sex lives. 

“Speak of the devils,” Baz says, smirking at something just past my head. Dev and Niall come slinking back to our table with red, stubble-burnt mouths and bright eyes. 

“What?” Dev inquires, feigning ignorance. “Can’t a bloke have a shit without everyone bringing it up?” 

“You’ve traumatized my boyfriend,” Baz tells him, giving Dev a playful shove back into the booth. “Honestly, I can’t take you two anywhere.” 

“Oh, as if you and Simon haven’t shagged in the toilets at one of your work dinners,” Dev accuses, pushing Baz back. There’s an awkward silence, during which Niall clears his throat in an attempt to get Dev to change the subject. I avoid Baz’s eyes, and feel my cheeks growing redder by the second. “Wait,” Dev says slowly, glancing between us. “You two _have_ shagged, right?” 

“Dev,” Niall warns, reaching across the table to grab Dev’s hand. Dev jerks his hand away and keeps pushing Baz, despite the obvious tone of discomfort at the table. If it were possible for steam to shoot out Baz’s ears, it would be happening. 

“You’ve been legitimately together, not just ‘weird agreement’ together for, what, _two months_?” Dev estimates, eyeing us suspiciously. “What the hell are you waiting on?” 

“That’s none of your business,” Baz growls, standing from his seat. He fishes around in his pocket for his silver money clip, tears out a few bank notes, and tosses them on the table. “Simon, let’s go, okay?” 

“Right,” I nod, swallowing hard as I stand up to join him. I’m more embarrassed than angry, but I want to get out of this awkward situation either way. “Thanks for the drinks. Good to meet you both.” I lace my fingers through Baz’s and allow him to tug me out of the pub and into the cool, dark evening. 

Baz turns off his Bluetooth connection as soon as we’re in the Jag, leaving us in dead silence for the entirety of the drive. His mobile beeps and rings in his pocket with messages and calls, probably either Dev or Niall calling to apologize or check in, but he makes a point of ignoring it. I can tell he needs some quiet time to cool down, so I don’t press him to talk. I also don’t ask where we’re going, just assuming that he’ll drop me off outside Pen’s and my flat. 

When we’re a few streets away, though, he wonders aloud, “Where’s the best place to park overnight around here?” It’s the first thing he’s said since we left the pub. 

“A-are you coming up with me?” I ask, regarding him curiously. This is new. 

“For a while…if it’s alright,” he says hesitantly. 

_Pfft._ Is it alright? What sort of question is that?! 

“Yeah, ‘course it is,” I nod jerkily. “Just park along this side street. Should, uh, be fine there.” He parks where I’ve pointed, turns off the engine, and follows me inside. I can see from the sidewalk outside that Penny’s bedroom light is on, and I really hope that she doesn’t decide to bring up our argument again when we get upstairs. I just want Baz to stay awhile, even if he just wants to sit in silence instead of talking. 

“You’re sure it’s alright?” He repeats, taking my hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles. 

“Yes.” 

We climb the stairs up to the flat, and he waits patiently while I shuffle through the keys on my ring in search of the front door key. When I push the door of the flat open, the first thing I see is a mountain of cookies on a cellophane-wrapped plate, with a folded paper atop the pile that says, “I’m sorry - xoxo, Penny”. She must have set it out, thinking I’d be home late. 

“Penny?” I call out, pulling Baz into our flat. We both toe off our shoes and push them onto the mat beside the door, and hang our coats on the hooks screwed into the wall. The little leather backpack Penny uses as a handbag is where she always leaves it when she gets home, so I assume she's in. 

“Simon?” A tiny voice calls from the sitting room. When I peek around the corner, Penny is wrapped up in her dressing gown on the sofa, her hair pulled up into a messy bun, and a bowl of popcorn in her lap. She’s got Disney+ pulled up on the telly, and it looks as though she was just about to start a film. 

“Hey,” I greet her softly, stepping further into the flat. “Everything alright?” Penny’s eyes shift to a spot just past my shoulder, where I assume Baz must be standing. 

“I—um. Well, I think I owe you both an apology,” she admits in a squeaky voice. “Have you got a minute?” 

“Would you mind if we joined you?” Baz asks, pointing at the telly screen. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen a good Disney film.” Penny blinks up at him, sniffs hard, and nods. 

“Sure, okay,” she agrees. 

“Give us just a minute, Pen, alright?” I request, pulling Baz across the flat and into my room. I flick the light on and groan internally at the mess I’ve left on my floor, but Baz doesn’t seem to mind. He just sits himself down on the end of my bed, crossing his legs as he regards me seriously. 

“She looks like she could use a friend right now,” he explains immediately. “And I don’t think I’m quite ready to talk about things just yet. So, if it’s alright with you…” 

“Yes, we can watch a film with Penny,” I tell him. When a tiny smile graces his lips, I feel a rush of warmth run through my chest. Baz shifts his legs so I can stand between them, and he sets his head against my chest as I hold him in a tight embrace. “But only if you put on some pyjamas, alright?” 

And that’s how Penny, Baz and I end up in a cuddle pile on the sofa, all wearing plaid pyjama bottoms, arguing over whether Hercules is more or less attractive than Prince Eric from _The Little Mermaid_. We’ve all got things that need to be said, but we’re saving it for a later date. For now, I’m comfortable with my head on my best friend’s shoulder, and my feet in the lap of the fittest bloke this side of London.


	8. Chapter 8

**Simon**

I wake up with a faceful of dark, silky hair, the scents of cedar and citrus heavy in my nose. The sun peeks through the sitting room window just enough that when I open my eyes, I can see a long, lithe body splayed out beside mine. My back hurts from sleeping on the sofa, and I think Baz’s elbow is permanently lodged in my kidney, but it’s fine because he’s _here._

_“Mmmrgh,”_ Baz mumbles against my neck when I try to shift sideways so we might be more comfortable. “Don’t get up.” 

“M’not,” I assure him gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead. I do, however, lift my arm enough so I might see what time my watch says it is — about half seven, which would be alright if it were the weekend, but it’s Friday. “Baz, what time d’you need to be at work?” His eyes snap open. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he groans. Baz tries to haul himself up off the sofa, but with our limbs as intertwined as they are, and with a blanket haphazardly tucked around us (thanks for that, Penny), we fall to the floor in a heap. 

“Ow,” I grumble, grateful that his bony knee has just missed my groin. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, pushing himself up onto all fours above me. Baz with bedhead is a beautiful mess. “I’m meant to be in the office at eight, and I’ve a mandatory team meeting at 8:30.” 

I’ve never been to Baz’s flat, but I know that there’s not a chance in hell he’s going to get all the way home through rush hour traffic in time to shower, get dressed, and make it to the office for an 8:30 meeting. 

“Call in and tell them you’re dying?” I suggest, hoping that perhaps he might be able to spend the morning with me. Penny’s already left for the day, and I don’t have class on Fridays, so it would just be us. I could tuck him back in on the sofa and make breakfast, stopping occasionally for lazy morning kisses. 

“Fat chance,” he snorts, using the sofa for support as he stands up. “My father knows I was out with Dev and Niall last night, and he’ll kill me if he thinks I’m calling in because I’m hungover.” 

Well, it was nice to dream. Baz offers me a hand and gives me a quick kiss once we’re both standing upright. 

“Is ‘Casual Friday’ a thing at your work?” I wonder, following him as he makes for the bathroom. “You could borrow some things of mine. Might be a bit big in the shoulders, but probably better than showing up in yesterday’s clothes.” 

“That’s…not a terrible idea,” he says, turning in the doorway to face me as he considers the offer. “Could you set out some options for me while I shower?” 

“Sure. Penny won’t mind if you use a bit of her shampoo, and towels are in the cupboard beside the toilet,” I let him know before leaving him to his devices. 

“Simon,” he calls through the door a moment later, “Have you got a spare toothbrush?” 

“Check beneath the sink. Penny might have an extra lying about,” I shout, already in my bedroom. “Or just use mine, it’s the green one!” 

“That’s disgusting,” he asserts. "I'm not sharing your toothbrush." 

“So you’ll put your tongue in my mouth, but borrowing my toothbrush crosses a line?” I ask, holding back a laugh. 

“Well that’s…it’s different,” Baz protests weakly. 

The pipes creak as the water turns on, which means that Baz has either found a spare toothbrush, or given up hope. Not sure what constitutes a “quick” shower in his mind, but I do my best to hurry in finding him something to wear. Just about everything I’ve ever purchased is out, because it’s all a bit too casual, but the blue jumper I wanted to wear to my first meeting with Baz is now stain-free, and Penny bought it, so that means it's nice. 

I also set out a pair of dark wash jeans that are a bit long on me, so they should fit Baz well enough as long as he wears a belt. He gets my nicest pair of clean boxer shorts and some navy argyle dress socks, both of which I check every inch of for any embarrassing holes. 

When Baz appears in the doorway ten minutes later with a fluffy towel wrapped around his waist and a second on his head in that turban-style Penny and Agatha do as well, I just about fall over. His chest is flushed pink with the heat of his shower, and little beads of water glisten on his shoulders, leave shiny trails on his skin as they drip down and soak into the fabric of the towel clinging to the sharp angles of his hips. 

“Hi,” I say, my voice much higher than usual. Baz smiles awkwardly, holding onto the edge of the towel to keep it from falling down. Because I’m trying so hard not to stare at his bare skin, it takes much too long for me to realize that he needs me to leave the room so he can get dressed. “Fuck, I should—sorry, I’ll go,” I splutter, practically falling off the edge of my bed where I’d been sitting. His soft laughter cuts off when the door clicks shut behind me. 

A few minutes later, he finds me face-down on the sofa, willing my brain to think of anything but Baz being naked in my bedroom. It’s a glorious thought, but not when I don’t get to do anything about it. Two months to go until our contract is up, and I’m already dying with want. 

“Simon?” He murmurs close to my ear, drawing my attention. When I turn my head, he’s crouched down next to me so we’re at the same eye-level. “Thanks for letting me stay over. I know it’s…not what we agreed upon.” His gaze shifts to settle on my mouth, and it takes all my strength to not yank him to me by the collar of his jumper. 

“I want to see you again,” I implore, “And I don’t want to wait until your work dinner next week. Don’t make me wait that long, _please._ It doesn’t even need to be in private, if that’s what you’re hung up on.” 

Baz lets out a groan and lets his head fall forward, rests it against my arm, which is tucked along the side of my body. “Christ, you have no idea how much I want to say yes.” 

“Just…say it, then,” I plead, running a hand over his hair. It’s still wet from his shower, and smells like Penny’s cherry blossom shampoo. “Let me meet you for lunch, or we can meet up with your friends again — I’ll take anything I can get.” He lifts his head just enough so that he can see me, his eyes icy grey as they regard me with the softest of looks. 

“I’ll call you after work today,” he promises, pressing a light kiss to my lips. “We’ll—I don’t know, we’ll sort things out.” 

And with that, he leaves for work, scooping up his car keys and the neatly-folded stack of clothes he wore yesterday on his way out. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

I waltz into my team meeting ten minutes late with Starbucks, which really isn’t an uncommon occurrence for me. Nothing important has happened yet; my colleagues are all just sitting and chatting over shitty cups of coffee. The withering look my father turns on me as I push open the glass door of the conference room becomes slightly less sour when I set his favourite drink, a tall Irish Cream Americano, down in front of him. I texted him to say I was running late, but it was his choice to hold the meeting until I arrived. 

“Basilton,” he greets me wearily. “Nice of you to finally join us.” 

“Apologies for my tardiness, Mr. Grimm,” I reply airily. He’s said it’s unnecessary, but I absolutely refuse to call him ‘Father’ in front of anyone but Dev and Niall. Too many people already assume that I have this job just because I’m the son of the CEO. Wrong — I’m good at what I do, and my father was smart enough to recognize it. 

The meeting is boring, as I knew it would be. Just a load of tosh about maintaining excellence in customer service, and a reminder about upcoming structural changes in a few of the companies we manage. The only company we associate with that needs some serious changes (in may opinion) is Watford Real Estate, but because we don’t own any of their stock, there’s nothing we can actually do to rearrange their management team. 

“Did you enjoy your evening with Dev?” My father inquires, rapping his knuckles on the table beside my empty coffee cup to grab my attention. I blink owlishly at his sudden intrusion on my fantasy to end David Mage’s career in a fiery Baked Alaska-related incident at the next work dinner we attend together, realizing that he and I are the only two people left in the room. The meeting ended who knows how long ago, and I just sat here like a distracted idiot. 

“Hm? Yes, it was fine,” I nod, waving away his question. “Sorry, I was just plotting David’s demise and lost track of time. What can I do for you, Father?” 

“Interesting you should mention Mr. Mage,” he says. “I received a very interesting telephone call from him first thing this morning, inquiring about your new friend. Simon, isn’t it?” 

“I’m…not following,” I frown. 

“Simon accompanied you to the ‘Helping Hands’ gala last month, did he not?” 

“Yes, and David was there as well,” I answer. “What does this have to do with anything? David was a fucking prick the entire night, as usual, and Simon was nothing but polite despite David's goading. If he said otherwise—” 

“When Simon was here yesterday, I thought for a moment that I recognized him from somewhere,” Father continues, ignoring my comment. “I couldn’t quite put a finger on it until Mr. Mage called this morning, asking what I knew about your ‘companion’.” 

“He’s my _boyfriend,_ ” I snarl defensively, jumping out of my seat so that I’m standing nose to nose with my father. “Don’t you dare—” 

“Basil, _listen to me,_ ” he hisses, cutting me off again. “This is a serious matter. David Mage is nosing around, looking for information about Simon. This concerns me, and should therefore concern _you,_ because I believe David and Lucy Mage to be Simon’s biological parents.” 

“His…parents?” _What?_

How could they be Simon’s _parents_? David and his wife don’t have any children, and have been together since they were very young — teens, even — if my memory serves correctly. Simon never talks about his family, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one. I’ve never pressed him on the subject; he changes the topic anytime I venture anywhere close. And if the Mages were his parents, if he had recognized them, surely he would have reacted, or said something to me at the very least. 

“You didn’t notice an uncanny resemblance?” My father asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m surprised at you, Basil. You’re usually so attentive to detail.” 

“Forgive me for saying so, Father, but I wasn’t particularly _focused_ on David or his wife that night,” I huff, crossing my arms. “Not with Simon beside me.” He rolls his eyes, but I know he doesn’t hold it against me. My father hates those charity galas more than I do, which is why I’ve always attended in his place when possible. 

“Well, I’m telling you to pay attention now,” he says, pulling his mobile from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “This is a photo of David and his wife from the Christmas card he sent Daphne and I last year — I had her send it to me straight away. Compare this to a photo of Simon, if you have one, and tell me you don’t see it.” 

I open my mobile to my home screen, where I have a photo of Simon and I as the background. My father holds his mobile up beside mine, and right away, I see exactly what he means. 

“Fuck,” I murmur, blown away by the similarity. David and Simon have the same nose, the same broad shoulders and sturdy, square jawline. And Lucy — dreamy-eyed Lucy, who always seems to be off in her head somewhere — matches him in every other way. The golden curls and gentle blue eyes; soft, smiling lips; even the slant of Simon’s brow and cheekbones are echoes of hers. 

“I told David what I know, which is nothing,” my father assures me. “If he and his wife are Simon’s parents, I can think of no good reason they would have been separated, whether by adoption or by some other circumstance.” 

“I have to go to him,” I tell him, the gears in my brain spinning dangerously fast. “Simon needs to know this. David could…I don’t know what he could do, but I don’t like the idea of Simon being out in the world, clueless about this, if David suspects there to be some sort of connection.” 

“I’ll let Kerris know to send incoming calls directly to your voicemail,” he agrees, setting a hand on my shoulder. His expression softens, and for a moment, I expect him to pull me into a hug or start in on some flowery speech — both of which are decidedly un-Malcolmish things to do. “Let me know when you’ve sorted things out. I don’t mean to pry, but…” 

“I understand. I’ll be in touch,” I assure him. I step forward and kiss my father’s cheek, wanting desperately to show him how grateful I am for his quick thinking. He may not be a demonstrative man when it comes to love, but it’s a well-known fact that Malcolm Grimm puts his family first. 

With the keys to the Jag in hand, I hurry down to the underground car park as quickly as I can. Service in the building is shit, so I don’t ring Simon until I’m driving. He answers on the second ring, his voice a bit sleepy. He must have gone back to bed as soon as I left. 

“‘Lo?” he yawns into his mobile. 

“Simon, it’s me,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm but utterly failing. I’m still a bit winded from the sprint to my car. 

“Baz? Is everything alright?” he inquires. 

“You’re still at home?” I confirm. “You haven’t gone out anywhere?”” 

“I don’t have class today,” he answers slowly, “So…yeah, I’m home for the day. Why?” 

“I’m on my way over. I, uh, need to talk to you about something important.” Understatement of the millennium. This could be the most important thing I’ve ever talked about with Simon. His family. What if he knows? What if he doesn’t? 

“If you think you’re breaking up with me because you’re in a tizz about staying the night,” he threatens, “So help me god, Baz, I’ll—” 

“Are you adopted?” I blurt out, unable to contain myself any longer. I have to know. This can’t wait. I mean, it can, and it probably _should,_ but I’m in such a state after that discussion with my father that I just need to have it out of me. 

“Am I—am I _adopted_?” Simon asks, incredulous. He pauses so long that I think he’s hung up on me. And then suddenly, he’s laughing. Simon Snow is laughing, heartily chuckling deep, full-bellied guffaws as if I’ve just asked him in earnest if he turns into a hairy wolf-man hybrid when the moon is full. Like I’m a proper lunatic. 

“So that’s a no, then?” 

“Of course I’m not,” he supplies with a snort. 

The relief that washes over me is instant. Of course he isn’t adopted. Simon has a normal family, just like Dev, Niall and I do. He has two happy parents that love him, and perhaps a gaggle of annoying siblings gagging for his attention when he goes home at holidays. Perhaps they live in the north so he doesn’t see them often, and that’s why he doesn’t talk about them. My father’s concerns were unfounded, and David Mage just so happens to have a remarkably similar nose. What on earth was I even thinking? 

“I’ve never met my parents,” he carries on as casually as if we were discussing what he had for breakfast this morning. “My mother dropped me off on the front step of an orphanage just after I was born. Wrote my name on my arm in permanent marker — Simon Snow — and that was that. I grew up in care homes, moving around a few times a year, until I got this flat with Penny. Did it as soon as I could sign myself out, actually.” 

My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. 

“Baz, are you there?” Simon’s voice sounds far away. “Hello? Baz?” 

“I—yes, I’m here,” I say faintly, swallowing the hard lump in my throat. “Service is shit. I'll, er, see you in a minute.” He starts to answer, but I’ve already ended the call with the button on the touch screen display in the centre of the dash. 

David Mage is Simon’s father, and I’m the one who has to tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to @Ampithoe for diverting the shoddy plot I had originally laid out by commenting on David and Lucy maybe being Simon's parents. No, that wasn't my original intention, but then THIS came up and now I can't undo it. Thanks, friend. xoxo


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Mentions of suspected domestic violence (non-graphic). Take care of yourselves.**

**Simon**

The five of us — Baz, Penny, Shep, Agatha, and I — are gathered around the kitchen island, elbows leaned on the countertop as we scroll through photos on our phones and compare them. This morning, Baz dropped the bomb that my parents might be alive, and that they might know about me as well. 

Before today, I was dead sure that I didn’t want to look into my birth records. I’d always sort of imagined that my mother and father were in love but had me too young, and felt it best to leave me in (what they thought were) the capable hands of the sisters at the orphanage. It took years, but I got it all sorted in my head. 

What Baz told me today has turned my entire world upside down. The universe decided to play a cruel trick on me the moment I thought I had everything worked out. My birth parents could be literally within my reach, and I’d never have known if not for Baz. 

He came to me straight away with his suspicion, even took the day off work so I wouldn’t have to sit at home alone with only my thoughts for company. We curled up on the couch together and he held me close as I cried, raged over the very possibility that a man like David Mage could be my father. Baz even insisted I call Penny and Agatha so I’d have emotional support from the people who know me best. 

“Oh my god,” Agatha says, sliding her phone to the centre of the table. “Simon, she looks so much like you. The hair, the eyes…” 

“Are you freaking out right now, man?” Shep asks, setting a hand on my shoulder. “It’s totally cool if you are.” 

“I, uh, don’t really know,” I admit, resting my chin on my hand as I check out the photo Agatha’s set in front of me. “It’s a lot to take in.” 

“My question is, what the hell does this David guy want from you, if you really _are_ his son?” Penny wonders. 

Baz takes my hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’m with Penny,” he says, regarding me cautiously. “I’ve known David for several years now, and there’s always an ulterior motive behind his good deeds.” 

I think that if I asked Baz to give David Mage a chance, he would do it for me. It would be really difficult, because the bloke’s a real piece of work, but he would do his best. Thankfully, I have no interest in getting to know David, whether he’s my father or not. Lucy, on the other hand… 

“So what’s your impression of the wife?” Shep asks Baz pointedly. 

“Lucy is extremely quiet,” Baz explains, “And she always seems a bit off, like she’s off in some other world. I assumed she was just shy, or not fond of big events, but something doesn’t feel quite right about it now.” 

“I think I’m going to talk to her at Baz’s work dinner this week,” I announce to the group. All eyes turn to me. 

“About…about maybe being her kid?” Penny asks, eyebrows furrowed. “Simon, I don’t know if that’s the best idea.” 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I ask. “She laughs and says, ‘No, of course I didn’t give up a baby twenty-three years ago’, and it’s a bit weird between us for a few minutes? But if I don’t ask, and she _is_ my birth mum…” 

“There could be something there,” Baz finishes for me. He's hit the nail right on the head. 

* * * * * 

At Baz’s work dinner, the second I’ve attended with him, we arrive at almost the same time as David and Lucy. This time, though, something feels different. David’s hand is clamped around Lucy’s wrist, but she doesn’t seem put off by it, so I hesitate to say anything. If there’s any sign that she’s in pain, I’ll be on him in an instant. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” David says as we walk towards our table. “Nice to see you both again. I wasn’t sure whether Simon would be joining us or not.” 

A thinly veiled shot at Baz’s and my relationship right out of the gate. Classy. 

“And how have you been, Lucy?” I ask, prompting the woman gently. Hearing her name, she turns towards me with a wan smile, her eyes focused on the floor. David watches her carefully, his gaze almost…predatory. 

“Darling, Simon is asking you a question,” David presses, as if she needs his permission to speak. 

“Fine, thank you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “And yourself?” 

“Alright, thanks,” I reply, keeping my voice calm. She seems skittish, like a deer that might run off into the trees at the slightest sign of danger. 

“David, can I interest you in a drink?” Baz offers, pointing towards the bar. “Simon and Lucy could find our table while we fetch refreshments.” 

“Oh, I think Lucy will want to come along and choose her own beverage,” Mage insists. It doesn’t seem that he’s going to be letting her out of his sight this evening. I notice an almost imperceptible shift in Lucy’s expression, as if she’s tasted something bitter, but she rearranges her features quickly. 

“Very well, then,” Baz agrees, though the corners of his mouth quirk downward into a slight frown. His eyes flicker towards me; he’s noticed something strange happening here as well. 

The four of us sidle up to the bar and order drinks — seltzer for Lucy, a vodka cran for me, some sort of white wine for Baz, and a stiff double scotch for David. 

We find our seats, and Baz introduces me to a few new faces. He has about 20 clients he works with regularly, though some attend these dinners more often than others, he’s told me before. Everyone seems friendly and frankly much better mannered than David, at least while they’re still sober. 

Like last time, we listen to a few speeches from the organizers of the event before dinner starts. My attention is mostly on Lucy, who stares at the tablecloth or picks at her nails the entire time. She stiffens considerably whenever David leans over to whisper something in her ear, and responds only with a terse nod. I do my best to not be caught watching her; David already seems suspicious, and I don’t want it to be any harder to pull her off to the side to talk later. 

“Would you excuse us, please?” Baz begs pardon partway through dinner, reaching for my hand. “Simon and I need to powder our noses, but we’ll be back in a moment.” David waves us off, disinterested in our comings and goings so long as we don’t bother his wife. 

_“Powder our noses?”_ I ask with a wince once we’re out of earshot. 

“Mage bought it,” Baz snorts, rolling his eyes. “The imbecile thinks all gay men wear makeup.” 

We sneak off into the corridor where the toilets are located, choosing a nook cut into the wall to press ourselves into. It’s less suspicious if we pretend to snog in a dark hallway, because it seems the sort of thing young blokes like ourselves are likely to do at a stodgy event like this. Baz pulls me against him by the lapels of my jacket, grazes his lips against mine as an event staffer shuffles awkwardly past us. 

“Mage is keeping Lucy close,” he observes breathily, nosing at the skin just below my ear; it tickles. I tug him closer by his belt loops so he’s right up against me, right where I want him. 

“How do we separate them?” I ask, stifling a groan as Baz’s hands slip beneath my jacket and slide down my ribs, stopping on my hips and taking tight hold of me. Perhaps Dev was right about Baz liking to get handsy at dinner events. “Wait for her to go to the loo, perhaps?” 

“He’ll know something’s up if we do that,” Baz shakes his head. 

“I reckon we’ll need _him_ to piss off elsewhere, then.” 

Much to my displeasure, Baz pulls away, stops mouthing at the skin of my throat. 

“Simon, you’re brilliant,” he says with a wicked smile. It’s a plotting smile, one that makes me want to kiss him silly. “That’s it. We need him, quite literally, to piss off. If he goes to the toilet, he can’t very well drag his wife along with him.” 

“So, what, you keep buying him pints and hope he can’t hold his drink?” 

“Exactly.” 

Someone clears their throat in the doorway of the nearby men’s room, grabbing our attention. A well-dressed man stands there giving us the stink eye, as if he’s got any right to police the corridors. 

“Can I help you?” Baz asks defiantly, tightening his grip on me. The man sniffs, turns up his nose at us, and continues on his way. _Prick._

Just before Baz goes to pull away from me for good, to end our covert discussion in the dimly lit hallway, I bring him in for an aggressive snog — one that makes his mouth pink and ruffles his hair a bit. I even go so far as to loosen his tie for dramatic effect. 

“Simon,” he chastises, reaching up to adjust it, but I cut him off with another touch of my lips, gently this time. 

“Have to look as though we’ve actually been snogging,” I insist, grinning. “C’mon, Baz, we’re young and in love. No one will believe it if we return to the table in perfect condition.” 

Baz’s measured expression falters at the word ‘love’, as though this is the first time he’s even thought about it. What we have, it’s more than just money or kisses in dark corridors. I felt it the morning he woke up on my sofa, curled up in my arms. We could fall in love, couldn’t we? 

“R-right,” he says, his voice cracking. He takes my hand in his, and we return to our table, where I make a show of fixing Baz’s tie and adjusting a few bits of hair, even though it makes him blush. As I shower Baz with my attention, I feel David’s eyes on me; it’s an uncomfortably similar sensation to having some crawly critter creeping up my neck. I find myself reaching back to adjust my collar, just in case there’s a bit of fluff or a stray hair, but nope — just David being a right creep. 

Baz starts calling over a waiter for a new glass of champagne every time David’s is empty. When the man starts to do what Penny's mum calls “the wee dance”, a sure sign that his bladder is near bursting, I ask Baz for a pen (because of course he has one in his pocket) and scribble my mobile number on a scrap of the event program — I might only have a minute or two with Lucy while David runs to the loo, and I want to make a connection while I can. 

Sure enough, David stands up a moment later and excuses himself from the table. He eyes Lucy meaningfully before he leaves, a look that says, _Keep you mouth shut._ I grit my teeth at the sight; he doesn’t even have to say a word to be a controlling bastard. Baz and I watch as he makes his way towards the toilets. 

As soon as he’s disappeared into the loo, I’m out of my seat and by Lucy’s side. 

“Hello, Lucy,” I greet her. “How are you doing?” 

“Please don’t do this,” she whimpers, her gaze flickering towards the bathroom. “He’s going to be back any minute.” 

“So you know there’s something I want to talk to you about, then?” I ask, my eyes growing wide. “Baz’s father said your husband has been asking about me.” 

“Yes,” she nods, “I’ve heard him asking, and…” She hesitates, fiddles nervously with her wedding band. “I think he’s right. That you’re my…our…” 

“Take this,” I insist, pressing the scrap of paper with my number into her hand. “Hide it somewhere, and call me when you’re alone, alright? Is that something you can do, d’you think?” 

“Maybe.” Lucy bites her lower lip. She looks to the bathroom door once more before leaning forward and tugging the neckline of her dress aside so she can tuck my number into her bra, where it will be safe. As she does so, I notice a series of fading oval-shaped bruises near her collarbone, at the base of her neck. They look suspiciously like the pads of fingers — like someone's grabbed her too hard. 

“Lucy, is he hurting you?” I question, keeping my voice low. “Are you safe to go home with him?” 

“I—I have to,” she says emphatically, her watery blue eyes meeting mine. “There’s nothing I can do about it. Not now. Please, you can’t tell anyone. I don’t want—” 

“Let us help you, Lucy, please,” I beg, but her expression goes stone cold, and she leans back against her chair without another word. I don’t dare look over my shoulder, because I know if I do, it will tip David off to the fact that I know he’s got a close eye on his wife. I remain crouched beside her until I hear his footsteps behind me. 

“You’ll have to pass along that recipe,” I say loudly, faking a smile as I stand up and walk directly into David. “Oh, sorry!” I apologize, feigning surprise at his sudden appearance. “I was just asking Lucy if she’s got any good recipes for two. Baz and I are trying to cook together more often, and I figured she might have some suggestions.” 

“Right,” David says slowly, turning his sharp gaze on his wife. She remains stock-still, as if he might not see her if she doesn’t move. I look to Baz, who is chatting amicably with the couple beside him, but his stiff posture tells me he’s aware of the situation. I don’t want to make a scene for her sake, but I wish someone else at the table would take notice. 

As soon as I’ve taken my seat, Baz’s hand is on my knee. He draws me into conversation with his client and her husband, which gives me something to take my mind off the anger and frustration bubbling up inside me. I do my best to avoid looking David’s way because I know if I do, I’ll do something stupid and ruin any chance I have of talking to Lucy. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

Simon is unusually quiet for the remainder of the evening. He answers questions when asked, but it’s clear he’s distracted by something. I didn’t catch any of what he said to Lucy, but based on the tense moment of confrontation between him and Mage when he returned from the toilet, Simon knows something I don’t. I don’t press him, though, because I get the sense that Simon is an all-or-nothing sort of man when it comes to anger. 

Sure enough, as soon as we’re in the car to go home for the night, he erupts, telling the whole story in a series of gasping breaths. 

“She’s got bruises, Baz,” he seethes, tearing at his hair in frustration. “He’s controlling her, that fucking bastard, and she’s afraid of him.” 

“Can’t you…I don’t know, report it to someone?” I ask helplessly. I have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. “The police or social services, perhaps?” 

Simon deflates a bit, lets out a long sigh. 

“It’s not so simple, unfortunately,” he explains after a minute. “If Lucy doesn’t want to leave him, we can’t force her. I can offer domestic violence resources, but…” 

“You really want to help her, don’t you?” I reach across the centre console and take his hand. It’s warm in mine. I brush my thumb across its freckled surface, squeeze it firmly in a gesture of reassurance. 

“She said she thinks…she might be my mother,” Simon murmurs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the seat. He lets his head fall against the glass of the window with a hard thunk. 

“Simon…” 

Fuck. I wish I was better at the whole ‘talking about feelings’ thing, because this would be an ideal time to have the right words to say. I’m certain Hallmark doesn’t make a card that says, _Congrats on maybe finding your birth mum, but sorry your dad’s an abusive prick._

“Would you stay with me tonight?” He asks in a small, hopeful voice. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, I promise.” 

I’d have to be a monster to say no. He just looks so…broken. Downtrodden. He’s met the woman that could very well be the mother he’s spent his whole life thinking and dreaming and wondering about, and her life’s not at all how he expected it would be. He’s hurting, and I want to make it better. 

“Yes, of course,” I agree immediately. “Of course I will.” 

Some of the tightness in his body seems to fade away, and I’m glad for it. I want to be a relief for Simon when he’s sad or wound up. I want for him to be himself around me, to not have to hide his feelings. If only I could do the same… 

When we reach his flat, I park in the same place I did the first (and only other) time I stayed over. He shuffles along a few steps ahead of me so he can unlock the building door. 

“Hey,” I call softly, stopping him before he can ascend the stairs up to the next floor. As soon as I open my arms, he’s falling into them, clutching at me for support. I hold him tightly, keeping him upright so he doesn’t melt into a puddle. The carpet in this building is more disgusting than words can describe, and I refuse to let this angelic man lie down on it in an attempt to seek comfort. 

We stand there for a long while, long enough that I start to feel sleepy. My face is nuzzled into Simon’s curls, and I’m humming something I heard on the wireless earlier today that feels applicable to this moment. We’re just existing together, outside of time and space, away from responsibilities or expectations, gently swaying to a song only we can hear, its lyrics a promise from me to him. 

_Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domestic crisis hotlines in Canada - https://endingviolencecanada.org/getting-help-2/
> 
> In the United States: https://www.thehotline.org/


End file.
